Wait For Me
by Tigerwalk
Summary: A fated reunion puts two former lovers at the crossroad of history and destiny.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N I forgot to include this in my first post. This story is written to one of my favorite songs, Morning Song by The Lumineers. Check it out if you have a chance.**

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Rick waited in the cab of his aging, silver pickup truck watching black plumes of diesel smoke drift behind the last train as it pulled away from the station. It had arrived in a rush of noise and commotion, thirty minutes late, and he couldn't help but wonder if the conductor had somehow known she was on board and endeavored to help her keep up her streak of never arriving anywhere on time. He hoped that was the case, but it had crossed his mind the longer time ticked by, that maybe she wouldn't come, that she'd changed her mind or had never been serious in the first place.

The leather seats felt stiff and brittle beneath him from the bitter cold air as he watched travelers filter out in small groups from the front door of the terminal and splinter off into their individual destinations. The initial flurry of activity had petered out, and now, only a few stragglers remained, some looking worn from the trip, some bursting with excitement to be at their destination.

He continued to watch patiently, his gaze flitting between the exit and the barren landscape surrounding the building, made to look dreary and desolate by the sepia colored paint brush of late winter. Dead branches and tawny, withered vegetation stretched out before him, reminding him of the bleakness of this town; the hopelessness. It hadn't always felt that way.

With his next glance at the glass double doors, he spotted her. The vivid plum hue of her wool coat popped against the colorless backdrop, making her appear almost surreal. Her long locs were piled atop of her head, a fuzzy, knit headband wrapped around her ears, keeping them warm against the chill. She wore camel colored ankle boots with opaque stockings that stretched beneath her winter wear, to what he was sure was a dress far too fancy for the occasion. He looked down at his own worn jeans and boots, having almost forgotten this part about the way she made him feel. He quickly gathered the hem of his plain, cotton button down, shoving the loose tails into his waistband as she glided toward the truck. Running a quick hand through his hair, he hopped out of the cab and came around to her side, opening her door.

She hoisted her rolling luggage into the bed of his pickup, before he could get it for her, and he was quickly reminded that only a few hundred dollars worth of designer clothes separated her from the girl he knew she was. She grabbed ahold of his outstretched hand with her gloved one and pulled herself up into the truck with a warm, little breath of exertion that danced visibly on the air. He returned to the driver's side, squeezing back behind the wheel and closed his door to the wind. Smoothing her hands over the fabric of her coat, she turned to look at him. Her brown eyes were drained from the journey, but he'd be damned if they didn't still shine like the sun through the flutters of her thick, black, eyelashes.

"How was the train?" he asked, keeping his hands glued to the steering wheel to keep from pulling her into his arms and never letting go.

"It was nice," she said. "Relaxing."

"And the flight?"

"Long."

"I've missed you," he said. He leaned toward her, his self-control waning, and pressed his lips against her soft skin just south of the intimate line between her jaw and her neck.

"I missed you too. I know I'm…" She started to apologize, probably for the length of time between their phone calls, or the even longer time since they'd seen each other, but he interrupted her with the question that had been burning on his tongue.

"Were you with him?" he rasped, more urgently than he'd meant to.

She turned away, settling her eyes on the same empty parking lot he'd just been watching. "Rick."

"I just...I need to know."

"You and I aren't together, Rick."

He didn't respond, instead fixing his gaze on her profile and studying the gentle slope of her cheek bone as she frowned.

"You know I was," she relented. "I am...when I'm there...home."

The semantics hurt his heart. "This is home," he muttered.

"How's your divorce coming?" she asked, pivoting to a place that caught him off guard. His failed marriage wasn't something they spoke about often.

"It's done."

"And Carl?"

"Every other weekend. Some holidays."

"You never should have married her."

"Yeah, I know," he drawled, dipping his head. "I learned that the hard way."

She nodded, looking sorry for the tone she'd taken. She didn't need to be; it was the same tone he took with himself on the nights he spent reeling over the way his life had panned out.

"I tried to marry you first," he reminded her, his eyes dropping to his hands, now folded in his lap.

Michonne shook her head, still staring at the nothingness around them. "After dating for six months," she said. "And to try to get me to stay." She was attempting to scoff, but the wistfulness in her voice wouldn't give her the strength to drive it home.

"You left anyway. And it's been six years now...after everything else, I still mean it."

"Can we drive?" she asked, rubbing her hands together to keep them warm as the outside air crept into the stationary vehicle.

"Yeah." He put the truck in gear, taking a precautionary glance around the now empty space out of habit, before rolling toward the mechanical arm at the exit to the parking lot. He rolled down his window and handed the man at the little glass hut a five dollar bill, then waited to be allowed to proceed. Taking another look at her glowing, sable skin as the barrier raised, he let his foot off of the brake and drove out onto the long access road that led out of the train station yard.

"We could have been happy, Michonne," he said, as he steered the truck onto the ramp to the only highway in the little town. "If you'd stayed, either time, we could have been. Instead none of us are."

"Don't do that, Rick," she said, flipping down the visor above her head and removing her glove to run a finger beneath her painted eyelid. "Don't blame me for you and her. You made that choice."

"You're the one who left."

"I couldn't give that opportunity up," she explained again, so many years later. The familiar refrain still held no weight in his mind. "I didn't know what we were going to be, Rick. Neither did you."

"I knew," he said, his eyes on the road. "And the second time? We both knew it then."

The exit he needed approached, and he smoothly sailed the vehicle off of the deserted high speed road. They soon found themselves on the narrower streets of the downtown area, slowing as the population became denser and signs of life started to appear more frequently.

"Looks the same," she noted casually, as her head swiveled to take in the few pedestrians traversing brick sidewalks, coming and going from the necessity shops that lined the way.

Rick hummed out a response, navigating his way to the sharp left-hand turn he was headed for. The business district immediately gave way to rows of small to medium sized bungalows, each with a tiny square patch of land to call their own, delineated by well kept hedges or white picket fences. He drove to almost the end of the road, where it would have been shadier if the thick treeline still bore leaves, and slowed in front of a little blue house with white trim.

"This is it?" she asked, leaning forward a bit in her seat to get a good look at where he lived now. They'd both been renting apartments when they were first together, young and broke and only needing a space to sleep in between long shifts and nights out. He'd settled in a nicer part of town by the time they reconnected years later, when she'd spent the night in his comfortable California King, and eaten breakfast in the large eat-in kitchen, left empty by the dissolution of his family.

Rick nodded affirmatively at the address, pulling to a stop in the short driveway and cutting the engine. He hopped out of the truck, wanting to get to her bag before she could insist on carrying it herself, and he did. He lifted it out as she jumped down from the cab and took a few steps toward the door, still studying the house. He set her bag down on the asphalt, rolling it on its wheels as he led the way to the front door and let them in.

"Sorry it's cold," he said, holding the door while she entered first. "I've been out since this morning. I'll start a fire."

Michonne nodded as he moved toward the hearth to load it with kindling. He caught her eyeing the state of the room pensively while he worked.

"I wasn't sure if you were gonna make me take you to a hotel," he explained. "I woulda straightened up."

She unbuttoned her coat silently, slinging it over the back of an armchair and tossing her gloves and headband on top of it. He looked over his shoulder from his spot, crouched before the fireplace, and watched her in her black cashmere dress, gathering empty beer bottles and ferrying them to the small kitchen on the other side of a half wall. When she had lined them all up on his counter, she returned, moving next to fold the blanket that was bunched up on one end of the couch and fluff the pillow lying beside it.

"You're sleeping out here?" she asked casually, not looking at him. Instead, she perused the handful of frames that lined the wide window-sill behind the couch. Pictures of his son, one or two of his father in his younger years, looking happy and carefree. Even he thought the shots looked out of place in the dark, lonely room, but he didn't have any sadder ones.

"I'm out here when I should be sleeping," he corrected her, finishing with the fire.

"You never did rest."

Rick brushed his hands off on his jeans, then slipped off his tan, canvas work jacket, tossing it next to hers, and dropped onto the couch.

"You could have come with me," she said, turning away and waltzing across the room to a bookshelf that lined the wall beside his TV. "When I left, you could have too." She ran her fingers along the spines of the books as she spoke, stopping every once in awhile to read a title.

Rick chuckled quietly to himself. "What was I going to do in Paris, Michonne?" He stretched his legs out in front of him, staring at his boots. "I'm a cop. I can be that literally anywhere in this country, but you decided to go to another one."

"Right," she sighed. "So you did what you were supposed to."

"Hey," he said sharply, his blue eyes narrowing. "You left me. Both times. Don't forget that."

"And you moved on," she shrugged.

He hung his head then, his voice dropping to a retrospective whisper. "It was an accident," he said. "I won't say it was a mistake...having Carl could never be a mistake, but I didn't plan it. She was pregnant and I..."

"And you did what you were supposed to do," she repeated. As soon as she said it she sighed, her proud shoulders softening. She crossed the room to take the spot beside him on the couch, her small frame sinking into the oversized cushions.

Rick reached for her hand in the space between them and breathed a sigh of relief when she didn't pull away. "You had been gone a long time by then, Michonne," he whispered.

She wiped at her eye again, pretending to be fixing a smudge of makeup.

"What kind of man lets you take this trip alone?" Rick said, after a few moments of contemplative silence had passed. "He should have wanted to be here for you. You deserve better than that."

"It's not a big deal," she said, waving a hand at the suggestion. "It wasn't worth the trouble. Besides he has work...I'm only here a short while." The list of excuses sounded so comfortable flowing from her mouth that he wondered how often she had to repeat them.

"It is a big deal," he said, turning to look at her as she stared down at her manicure distractedly. "Michonne."

"Rick," she breathed out, an air of exasperation ringing in her tone.

He dropped her hand and reached for her face, cupping her jaw in his large hand and stroking away a phantom tear he imagined on her cheek. "If you loved him, you wouldn't be here with me."

"It's not like that," she said, pulling away from him to stand. She meandered toward the fire, holding her hands out in front of it to capture some of its heat in her palms. "He doesn't ask me to choose."

"If you were mine…"

"I'm not anybody's," she said, firmly. "I come and go as I please."

Rick stood to follow her across the room, stepping into her space and pressing his chest against her back. "That's what it always was, right?" he asked, stopping short of touching her with his hands. He spoke against her ear, letting his breath tickle her skin. "This thing with me was gonna hold you back...a small town cop…you had bigger things than me on your agenda."

"It wasn't that," she protested. She moved to face him but he stopped her with a soft grip on her wrist.

"I get it," he said quietly. " But you've done them now; you've seen the world."

"I wasn't afraid you'd hold me back, Rick," she said, finally twisting in his grip to look him in the eye. Her chest was puffed out, the way it always was when she was about to deliver one of her indisputable points. It had always riled her when he challenged her by calling attention to something she thought only she knew about herself. "But I couldn't stay here for a chance. I couldn't do that to either of us."

"Michonne, look, I know I'm not making a whole lotta people happy these days, least of all myself...but I could make you happy...I know I could...if you'd let me."

"I never doubted that," she said. They stood, staring at each other for a few long moments, as the fire hissed and lapped at the air behind them. Finally, she pulled away, reclaiming her seat on the sofa. He followed, standing before her with his hands on his hips, begrudgingly allowing the moment to pass.

The sun was setting outside; the filtered light slipping through the drawn curtains grew dimmer, and the dusk sensing night light on the kitchen wall switched on. He glanced at his watch, confirming that the afternoon had passed and a cold winter evening was about to settle in.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, watching as the corners of her mouth curled upward at the question. She never turned down food.

"I have some soup my sister-in-law dropped off," he offered, sharing in her first grin of the day. "She thinks I don't eat."

Michonne's smile persisted as she ran her eyes up and down the length of his torso. She paused on his slim waist, and raised an eyebrow at him.

"I eat," he replied, arguing with her implication. He made his way to the kitchen, and she followed.

Rick opened the fridge, pulling out a large glass container full of homemade chicken stock with dumplings and vegetables, and he poured it carefully into a pot he had wrestled free from a pile in a lower cabinet. Michonne came to stand beside him, watching him stir for a few moments, before nudging him out of the way with her hip and adjusting the burner temperature.

"That night," he started, after pouring them both a short glass of whiskey. "I didn't even know you were back in the U.S., let alone here in town."

"We hadn't spoken in years at that point," she defended, but he continued as if she hadn't reminded him.

"That night meant everything to me."

"It shouldn't have happened," she said, her eyes on the pot as it began to bubble.

"It should have. It did."

"You weren't in your right mind, Rick," she argued, turning her face to him. "God, you had just...if I had known it had just happened that day, I wouldn't have…"

"Wouldn't have what? Let yourself feel what you did? You're right, Michonne, I wasn't in my right mind. That should have been the worst night of my life, finding my wife with my best friend...my partner." Even now the memory caused his chest to constrict and his jaw to clench tightly as he spoke. "I walked into that bar with the intention of drowning myself in a bottle until I couldn't see straight, but there you were," he said. "Like a goddamn ghost." His voice trailed off as she met his intense stare with her own.

She went silent and he thought he could see her own memories of the night flashing briefly across her face as her incredulous scowl softened.

He reached out again, running his fingers over her collarbone, down her shoulder, and he felt her shudder under his touch. "I knew there was a reason for it, me seeing you again," he whispered. "Holding you...feeling you in my arms…" His hand came to rest in the dip of her waist, and he rubbed his thumb across the soft fabric of her dress. He leaned in, unabashedly breathing in the scent of her hair. "And here you are again."

"You know why I'm here this time," she argued, weakly.

"But you're not just here...you're here, with me." Rick reached in front of her, turning the burner off, and took a step closer. He took a deep breath, then pulled aside the loose collar of her dress, brushing his lips across the back of her neck. He pulled away to see her eyes closed and her hand gripping the countertop in front of her. "We're sharing a meal," he whispered, his bottom lip brushing her earlobe. "A bed."

"But to what end, Rick?" she asked, spinning against the counter to stare up at him. "I'm in town to do what I have to do, then I'm going home, just like I did last summer."

"This is home," he said again.

"Rick…"

He didn't let her protest any further, quieting her with another kiss. He captured her mouth and her lips parted immediately, inviting him in. She clutched at his shirt with her empty hand, reaching blindly behind her to set down the glass she was holding.

"This is no different than that night," she said, when he let her go. "This time it's me not seeing straight." She stepped away, pacing the small path between him and the refrigerator. "My father's dead and I'm home to bury him. It's sad and confusing, and you're getting in my head like I did to you that night after Lori."

"Maybe," he said, satisfied with the effect he was having on her. "Or maybe, on nights like this, me and you are the one thing that make sense, and we both know it."

She paused to face him, and defiantly wiped away the tears gathering in her eyes.

"You're beautiful," he said, unable to help himself from baring his heart, even while she was trying desperately to deny hers.

"Where are your bowls?" she asked, turning back to the pot on the stove.

He pointed to the cabinet behind her and she opened it, standing on her toes to reach for a couple. He gathered spoons and napkins and set them on the table while she dished out their meals.

They ate in comfortable silence, Rick stealing glances at her over his spoon as she blew cooling breaths over her bowl. He studied the texture of her dress, the soft, feathery hairs caressing her curves as she sat with her legs crossed and her back straight, taking dainty little bites. He wanted to scoop her out of the chair and lay her across the table. He wanted to whisper everything he'd ever felt for her into the dips and valleys of her body until she admitted she felt it too, but he just watched her eat.

When they were finished, he gestured for her to leave the remnants of their meal to be dealt with later, and he led them back to the couch. Only the light from the fire remained in the dark room, but it was enough to watch her by, as she leaned down to unzip her boots and kick them aside.

"I'm gonna be there tomorrow," he said, when she had settled in beside him.

"You don't have to."

He breathed out a short laugh through his nose. "I know. You're not mine, right? But I'm gonna be there anyway."

She nodded, pulling her legs up underneath her and resting her head on his shoulder. He reached for the small black remote on the table beside him, pressing a series of buttons until music started playing softly in the background, filling in the silence between declarations.

They both knew it was her turn, and he waited patiently, soaking up the feel of her against him, like a parched plant when the rain has finally come. "That night meant something to me too, Rick," she whispered after a while, then a grin began to frame her words. "'Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world'...right?"

He chuckled at her penchant for speaking in lines written by someone else. It was her life's work, after all. "What's your latest part over there?" he asked, his fingers trailing her arm absently.

"You won't believe me," she laughed softly.

"Try me."

"I'm playing the wife of a powerful government man, sort of like a senator, but it's different there. He's having an affair...it's scandalous, lurid. He leaves me in the end and I tell all his secrets. I take down the whole government with them." Her eyes were alive as she filled him in on the fictional pain and love she felt freely and without abandon.

"I believe that," he said.

"Yeah?"

"That a whole country would come crashing down by your will alone? Yeah, I do."

She smiled alongside him. "It's funny," she said, "you always were the one who thought I could make something of myself. That's why it hurt so bad that I had to leave you to do it."

"You could stay with me now," he said quietly. "This could be some sad story we tell our grandkids, how we wasted so many years apart before we finally figured it out." He shifted beneath her, until he could see her face and she sat up to meet his gaze. "You could try writing the story, instead of just acting out the parts."

"That's never been a talent either of us possessed," she retorted. "Right, Rick?"

"Michonne," he said, shaking his head to argue with her, before thinking better of it. He reached for her shoulders and pulled her into him, their lips meeting with even more fervor than before. She slid her fingers into his hair, her displeasure still evident in her grip, and he growled into her mouth when her other hand clenched around his bicep, her nails digging into his skin.

He wasn't pulling away this time. He remembered that he'd never been successful in talking her into anything, let alone his arms. Instead, he slid his hands down her back, and under her thighs so he could lift her, then lay her beneath him on the couch. She kissed him back, her tongue and lips telling him exactly what she wanted without saying a word.

She ran her fingers hungrily along his back, as he moved down her body, feeling his way along the path he'd memorized long ago, then memorialized in his dreams. Being back here now was almost too much to handle.

He arrived at the hollow of her throat, letting his tongue slip out to see if she tasted the same and her moan let him know she remembered this too. He could feel her stockinged feet running the length of his leg, and he suddenly wanted to touch her there too. He sat up, leaving her lips parted and her eyes still carefully on him, and he used his palms to push up the hem of her dress until the fancy, lace garter of her thigh-high stockings appeared, like a secret treasure only he knew how to find. "You were always overdressed," he said.

"And you were always good at fixing that." She let her knees fall farther apart around him, offering him a glimpse of the dark green satin between her legs.

He continued to draw her dress up over her hips, then her midriff, dipping his head to kiss the skin below her belly button as it came into view. She lifted her pelvis, then her back, urging him to keep going, and he did, carefully pulling the fabric the rest of the way, until he could lift it over her head.

Michonne didn't play around with her fashion, so instead of tossing it on the floor, which was his inclination, he folded the garment carefully and set it on the coffee table beside them. The gesture caught her attention and she offered him a plaintive smile, as if he were somehow hurting her feelings by showing her the consideration she deserved.

"Years keep passing," he said, running his eyes along her newly exposed skin. "But you don't change. You're still the most beautiful thang I've ever seen."

"And you still say all the right things." She laughed under her breath, turning her face away.

He took ahold of her chin, gently bringing her face back to his. "Look at me, Michonne." He kissed her lips again, softer than before, but with just as much need. His hand slipped from her face down to her throat, his other traveling down her belly until he felt her warmth begin to caress his fingers.

Her hips rose to meet his touch, her breaths coming faster. "I can feel your heart beating inside your chest." His hands continued on, his left sliding from her neck to the rigid cup of her bra. "Tell me he makes you feel like this," he whispered into her neck. "Tell me he does and I'll stop. I'll forget about you and me, and I'll spend the rest of my life being happy that you're happy."

He waited, his fingers hovering at her entrance, until enough time had passed that he knew that confession wouldn't come. When he finally touched her, fresh tears welled in her eyes, and he prayed they were born from the same longing coursing through him.

Instead of wiping them away, she reached for the buttons on his shirt, exposing his chest as the drops rolled over the glowing planes of her face. She craned her neck to press her lips to his pecs and shoulders as he hovered above her, searching her face determinedly for any sign that she would stay. She smiled at him, her fingers ghosting along the stubble on his cheek, and he kissed her again before gathering her into his arms. His hands cupping her thighs, she wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms circled his neck while he carried her down the hall to his empty room, already made less lonesome by her company.

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He'd fallen asleep at some point, his bed feeling foreign to him with Michonne's warmth and weight tucked into it. He had tried to will himself to stay awake, to guard against any opportunity for her to slip away, but her presence caressed his heart in such a way that it demanded the rest it had been missing since she had last left him. His eyes had fallen shut in a contented, sated slumber. Now he could sense her stirring in his arms, wrapped tightly around her naked waist.

"I should go," she said, looking past his shoulder at the numbers glowing in the early morning darkness, from the clock on his night stand. "It's been twelve hours since I got in, and my sister doesn't even know I'm here."

"It's early yet," he whispered. He tightened his grip, knowing full well he couldn't keep her much longer. "You'll see her soon. What's a couple more hours?"

"Ok, Rick." She lay back down beside him, wrapping her arms around his neck, and he buried his face in her hair while bringing their hips to meet. She opened for him once more, and just as before, he settled inside of her as if they'd never been apart.

"It can be like this forever," he whispered, finding her lips again. He tried desperately to hold onto her with every stroke, to prove to her that home was where they could be together like this. He knew though, despite the look in her eyes that told him she felt it too, when he woke again, she'd be gone. For now he would close his eyes and pretend she was his, that she'd always been.

Just as he expected, when the first rays of sunlight greeted him, shining on the pillow beside him, they found it empty, save for a note written in her scrolling, flowing cursive. It was in French, and it was too early for him to try to decipher the prose, but he recognized the parting valediction as the same she'd left him with before. Mon coeur t'appartient à jamais: My heart is yours forever.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N Hi all, I decided to add on to this story. Hope you enjoy. There will be a couple more parts after this. Thanks for reading and reviewing.**

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 **Part deux**

Rick fastened the last button on his crisp, white dress shirt and looped a tie the color of graphite around his neck. He fastened it into a simple knot, then reached for the dark navy jacket that belonged to the only suit he owned. Satisfied with the fit after so many years hanging dormant in his closet, he ran a hand through his hair one last time in the mirror, and grabbed her note from where it remained on her pillow, tucking it into his inside breast pocket.

The sun was shining with more determination than it had in days, and he pondered the meaning of its triumphant return on this particular afternoon. He climbed into his truck, letting the engine warm for a few moments while he leaned against the headrest, preparing.

Every time she left it took more of him to follow, more pride he'd have to sacrifice, but this was something he wouldn't let her do alone. To the world she would be just fine; strong, stoic, the dutiful daughter, but the loss she felt today wasn't for the man they were burying; it was for a piece of herself that she hadn't quiet figured out yet, and now likely wouldn't. That was a more complicated grief.

Self-awareness was like a spiritual pilgrimage that she had dedicated her life to, examining every facet of her aura by playing it out on the stage. Figuring her out had been both his salvation and his undoing. She was drawn to him because of the way he saw her, but jealous of it at the same time. The thing about self-awareness is if someone else leads you to the realization, it always feels like a judgement, whether it was meant to be or not. He never judged her, though, only exalted her, genuflecting before every flaw she wore with earnest adulation. With one hand on the steering wheel, he reached around the seatbelt, fingering the folded piece of paper tucked next to his heart and started for the road.

The drive was quiet, Sunday morning wrapping the world in its lazy luxury and granting the reprieve that only came from mandated rest. There was nothing to be tended to and nowhere to be, except exactly where you were. Currently he was halfway to his destination, watching the spotty traffic wiz by him on the wide open road that would take him to her.

The service was thirty miles west, in the town where her father had settled alone and far enough away to avoid an accidental meeting with his former life, but close enough for his deliberate absence to sting. It was rural country, though there was a noticeable clearing in the winter treeline as he rounded a curve, the horizon opening up just in time for his destination to materialize before him. It was a solitary structure in the center of a drab, sandy parking lot that dusted around the tires of his truck as he pulled in, and his shoes when he got out.

He entered the simple, wood framed church, the heavy doors heralding his arrival with a groan, and stepped onto the faded red and gold carpet that lined the aisle. He spotted her immediately, standing in a small circle and speaking privately to her sister and two other women. When her attention fell upon him, she stopped, her lips still parted by the last word on her tongue, and she watched him.

…

 _She'd frozen mid-sentence when their eyes met, turning away from the group she was speaking to and staring brazenly at him as he entered through the tall double glass doors. He hadn't imagined that. Now he was lingering in the lobby of the on-campus theater hall at the local university, watching her laugh with a couple of other students, and contemplating how to find his way back to the good fortune of her focus._

 _It was an unplanned stop. He'd let himself get talked into catching the game with some friends after a particularly long shift, and he'd promised his buddy a ride from his second job, moonlighting as a security guard at the college. The theater's performance for the evening had let out a few moments prior and his friend was still finishing up, so he passed the time with a beer from the beverage cart, people watching, or rather, watching her._

 _He leaned against the wall, casually, his thumb hooked in his belt and his knee bent to forfeit some of the burden of a long day spent on his feet. The room was full of co-eds and haughty looking professors, dressed in tweed jackets and expensive dresses. Most nodded politely at him as they passed, smiling over their wine glasses, then going back to their dissection of the artistic attributes of the show. It was a love story from what he could gather, an unrequited one at that. The conversation was intriguing enough for eavesdropping purposes, but he was sure whatever beauty they found in the performance was nothing compared to the girl with the rich, dark, seemingly bronze-gilded skin and long black eyelashes, whose gaze kept drifting back to him from across the room._

 _He hadn't had time to change out of his uniform before the detour. His gun was heavy on his hip and the smooth bow of the glass beer bottle felt sexy in his hand, like an understudy for the round curve of her hip that he was eyeing from afar. The combination made him feel powerful, cocky even. He'd been donning this uniform for over a year now, but he'd never fully harnessed the effect it had over woman and used it to his advantage, though he knew he could; he'd seen his best friend, Shane, do it numerous times. Shane was a different breed, however. He didn't have a self conscious bone in his body. He was cocky even in those oversized gowns they wore at graduation, or with his ass hanging out of a hospital johnny, flirting with the nurses that conducted their physical examinations for the academy. He had reason to be confident, Rick mused, they flirted right back. Rick was more reserved, some said quiet, deliberate; but tonight he felt different. Tonight he felt hungry, determined. He'd wanted her from the minute he saw her and before he knew it, she was walking his way, an empty glass in her hand and a shy smile on her burgundy painted lips._

 _He straightened his stance and tilted his head as she approached, wondering if she had somehow heard his thoughts and decided to save him the trouble of waiting until her conversation had ended before insisting they get to know each other better._

" _This crowd isn't that rowdy, is it Officer?" she asked when she met him where he stood, letting her eyes run the length of him before settling on his face._

" _No, Ma'am," he replied with a smile. "Everyone seems to be behaving."_

" _Were you here for the play then?"_

" _Sorry to say I missed it. Was it any good?"_

 _She laughed quietly, glancing down at her own outfit. "I don't really think I can answer that objectively," she said. He followed her eyes, taking a closer look at her cream colored, backless sundress, which he suddenly realized was a little light for the January weather._

" _You were in it?" he surmised._

" _Yes. The lead, actually. Well, one of them. I shared it with my husband." She pointed with her pinky to a man wearing an equally out of season short-sleeved linen shirt and trousers._

 _Rick's eyes darted to her other hand though, looking to her fourth finger with a little skip of his heart. She caught the gesture and her flirty grin turned more mirthful. "Pretend husband," she clarified._

 _Rick nodded, taking a tiny breath to beckon his own smile back. "Well, from what I've been overhearin', it sounds like you were a hit."_

" _Really?" she asked, a glimmer of nervousness breaking through her poised, coquettish presence. She glanced around at the crowd, studying them as if she might be able to determine from whom he had received the review._

" _Really." He stepped toward her then, dipping his head conspiratorially, and pointed to an older woman wrapped in a red pashmina, with a severe looking bun and horn-rimmed glasses. He jutted his chin in her direction. "I happened to be next to her at the bar," he said. "I believe the word she used was 'brilliant' and 'heartbreaking'."_

 _She turned back to him, her beaming face now inches from his, and her eyes were dancing above a toothy grin that stretched the apples of her cheeks to the sky. He couldn't help but match the expression._

 _They continued to stand in a private huddle, their eyes fixed on each other, and basking in a silence that should have been uncomfortable, considering they'd only just met, but somehow felt apropos for the significance of the moment._

 _Finally, she broke the trance, chuckling quietly at the way they must have looked. "I'm Michonne," she said, offering him her dainty hand that felt small and fragile inside his._

" _Nice to meet you, Michonne," he replied. "I'm Rick."_

" _Nice to meet you, too, Rick."_

…

They locked eyes from across the empty church as he chose an inconspicuous seat in the back, and the rest of the room seemed to disappear. She looked like she'd spotted a lifeboat in the middle of a shipwreck, and he worried for a moment that maybe she thought he wouldn't come. She knew better than that, though. From the moment they'd met to the moment she left, he'd been wherever she needed him; he wasn't about to give it up now. He gave her an easy nod, one that said he'd be right there waiting, then dipped his head for a moment in reverence for his surroundings.

When he'd thanked his host for the gift of her proximity, he took a moment to scan the room. It was a habit born from his profession, and he couldn't shake it. The casket was a rich, dark wood, imposing in its central spot amongst the colorful ornamentation of the church's decor, like a heavy cloud marring an otherwise clear, blue sky. The congregation, a smattering of somberly clothed women and elderly gentlemen, milled about it with varying looks of consternation, some genuine, some merely summoned by the expectations of the situation. The disparate depths of sorrow were easy to distinguish, especially the hollow one forced onto her pretty face.

Michonne's father was not a well-loved man. The evidence of his mostly solitary life was expressed in the meager gathering of mourners upon his death, and the respects being paid were few, as they prepared to lay him to rest. He was a cold, callous, brute who hadn't been interested in the love of either of his daughters when he was alive, yet still somehow got to bask in a display of it today. The thought of it made his blood boil, but he knew better than most that fairness wasn't one of life's more bountiful gifts.

He watched her glide between the handful of people in attendance, all easily accommodated by the first two pews, shaking hands and offering the sporadic embrace. She was wearing another black dress, this one more formal than the one he had stripped her of the day before, and she paired it with a pair of heels instead of boots. A single line of pearls glowed against the inky fabric, and her locs were pulled up into a high bun. Finally, a minister dressed in the traditional garb approached, pressing a hand to her elbow to let her know it was time to begin. She glanced at him one more time, before taking her seat beside her sister, and even with a tear streaked face and tired eyes, she was still stunning.

…

 _She laughed with her whole body, her head thrown back and an arm clutched around her bare midsection while she shook._

" _What?" he demanded, his own laughter betraying his feigned exasperation._

" _You're doing it on purpose."_

" _I'm not."_

" _Say it right!"_

" _I thought I was."_

" _Rick!" She continued to giggle as she snatched the thick stack of stapled papers out of his hand and tossed it on the bed beside her. She threw a leg over his lap, straddling him, and his hands instantly landed on the soft skin of her thighs, running the length of them. "Say it right."_

" _You say it."_

" _No. It's no use. You're hopeless."_

" _I'm sorry," he said, giving her his most apologetic pout. "I'll read your English lines with you any time."_

" _Fine," she relented. "But that won't be for awhile. This play is going to be big, Rick. At least five performances, maybe more."_

" _I can't wait to see it."_

" _You'll come, then?" she asked, trailing her fingers along his chest and abs. It was one of his favorite games, when she'd trace invisible love notes on his skin and then make him guess what she wrote. Usually she signed her name, or some other possessive indication; marking him._

" _You thought I wouldn't?" he asked, his smile losing some of its strength._

 _She shrugged, giving up on her private inscription and leaning forward to rest her cheek on his chest. "Didn't know if theater was your thing."_

" _You're my thing," he whispered into the intricate knot of locs on top of her head._

" _You're mine."_

…

The minister delivered all of the standard kindnesses one pays a complete stranger upon their death, his scripted soliloquy like a descant to the melody of sniffles and muffled sobs coming from the gallery. When he closed his prayer with a parting thanks to the same God who had finally relieved the world of this man, he gestured to Michonne. Rick watched her intently as she stood and smoothed her dress, before carefully making her way up to the podium. It was here that she would summon the way she was supposed to feel, don it like a costume and hide behind it, and the thespian in her rose to the challenge. The altar was a stage, the congregated mourners her audience, and she knew all her lines.

He listened to her speak about the first man to teach her all about the sacrifices of being loved as if she knew him. She didn't. He was also the one who'd taught her how to put on a show, to be whatever person the moment required and, because she was resilient, she took that inherited weakness and turned it into a talent; a superpower. Rick watched her do it then, as she recalled her father's work ethic and contributions to their family, as if they hadn't been minimal; the same man whose ex-wife, the mother of his children, wouldn't even grant him her attendance at this service.

She played the part meticulously, a true artisan of her craft, but as she finished her remarks and stepped down the two steps leading to the long aisle, he recognized the exhaustion that all of her pretenses left in their wake sitting heavily on her shoulders. Her fingers pressed to her mouth, she kept walking past the seat she had just departed and rushed toward him, pulled by the same force that always landed her in his arms-the inherent desire to shed her mask and truly be seen. He stood to receive her, and she collapsed against his chest with a strangled sob, a rare, true emotion sneaking past her like a flubbed line or missed cue.

"You want to go?" he whispered, his arms wrapped tightly around her and her face buried in his shirt. Her family looked on, unvexed by the familiar sight of him waiting in the wings.

She nodded into his embrace, reaching up to dab at her eyes, and he wasted no time tucking her under his arm and ushering them out of the pew, toward the exit.

They both had to squint against the burst of daylight that greeted them when they hit the outdoors, but he didn't stop, leading her swiftly and blindly out into the parking lot. "Tell me where" he said, when they reached the place where his truck was parked.

"I need a stiff drink." She looked up at him with pleading eyes and he nodded.

He opened her door to help her up into the cab, then met her there, shifting his truck into drive and leaving the church, and her past, to evaporate behind a cloud of dust kicked up by his heavy tires.

She reached for his hand as he drove them, staring out of the window at the treeline with her face awash with a numbness he could feel in her loose grip. The bare limbs arching over the lonely road gave an air of solitude. It made him feel like they were the only two left on this earth; and the way her fingers laced with his made him wish they were. He headed back the way he came, hoping to end closer to his home, and to have her sleep another night beside him. Maybe he'd take a lesson from her on make believe, and convince himself he was holding her for good.

When they crossed back over the county line, arriving at the only place they'd ever called home together, he knew exactly where he was going.

The sun's persistent show of strength in the bold face of winter was no match for the dingy, cavernous bar. Even at midday the place looked like dusk, with a thick layer of dust on its few windows keeping the light at bay. He ushered her in, one hand firmly on her waist, as a handful of dedicated drinkers turned their heads to watch them enter. Their formal wear stood out like a sore thumb in the dive, but he knew she enjoyed that particular detail. She let him lead her to a stool, taking his hand as she balanced the red bottom of her patent leather pump on the wooden rung and hoisted herself up. Despite the discordant show of good breeding, when he took the spot beside her, she opted to let her knees fall apart comfortably and set her elbows on the sticky bar, waving at the man behind it like a pro.

"Two?" she asked him, her manicured index and middle fingers split into a V. Rick nodded, and she turned back to the bartender, ordering them each a double shot of scotch from a bottle sitting two shelves above his usual choice.

"You brought me here on purpose," she said, when their liquor had arrived and she had taken a long pull of its fire.

"Ain't a lotta choices," he defended. He stared at her while he took his own first taste.

"That's true." She bobbed her head in agreement as she looked around the space. "That's the thing about choices: we always think we're making them, but it's the lack thereof that really leads us where we go."

"I suppose." He reached out for her, anxious to get back the physical contact she so freely offered him on the ride there, and rested his palm on her knee. "But you made the choice to go there today, to speak. I know it was hard. I'm proud of you."

She eyed him with a mixture of fondness and mercy as she absently swirled the dark liquid around in her glass. "I didn't come back here for him," she admitted. "God knows I had a good excuse not to...but I knew if I did you'd be there. You'd never let me go alone. Why?"

"Because I love you," he said around another sip.

"Ah," she sighed, chuckling to herself. "So you had no choice?"

"But you did."

"You think I don't love you?" she asked, bringing her glass to her lips and staring at a point past his shoulder.

"I know you do... _that's_ why I had no choice. And that's why I brought you here."

…

" _Rick!"_

 _The twangy guitar riffs and mournful voice belting through the speakers muffled the sound of what he thought was his name being called from the ether. He turned nervously, glancing left, then right over his shoulder, fearing that the pain in his heart had finally pushed him from the tightrope of sanity that he'd been trying to balance upon._

" _Rick!"_

 _He searched the room, scanning the faceless weekend revelry that was, for some reason, crashing the miserable party for one he was trying to throw. He closed his eyes and tried to push it away- the sound of his reality bending. It had been years, but he'd know that voice anywhere. It simply couldn't be her, so he had to finally be giving in to either the alcohol or the madness._

 _He finally caught a glimpse of her, a vision he assumed, leaving the friend she had been sharing a drink with, and pushing toward the bar where she'd spotted him, alone, perched on a stool with a shot of whiskey in a short glass in front of him._

" _Rick! Hey…" She sounded out of breath, as if the walk and her own surprise at seeing him had stolen her air._

" _Michonne," he replied, slowing the word to keep himself from slurring. He still wasn't sure if he was imagining her, but now she was standing close enough that he could feel her body heat, smell her perfume._

" _It's been a long time," she said, her chipper tone replaced by regretfulness._

 _He was staring at her, making her uncomfortable, so he averted his eyes, dropping them to the floor between them. "It has," he said with a slow nod, focusing on his boot on the bottom rung of the stool. "How...why are you here?"_

" _My sister's getting married this weekend. To Scott...you remember him."_

" _Of course." There wasn't a thing about her he didn't remember, the scar on her left knee, her favorite ice cream, her sister's boyfriend's name; he still remembered it all._

" _I would have called you," she said, dropping her own study of him in favor of the crowd that passed behind him. "But I know it's been a really long time. I heard you were married now...so I didn't know if I should."_

 _Something about the way she said it sounded like an indictment, a miffed retort to an insult he'd made against her personally, or maybe it was just the timing that made him feel that way. Married. Marriage. It was a dirty word, a lie, a mistake. Maybe he should tell her that, tell her sister, tell Scott. He was married, just that morning. He supposed he still was, but that was just a technicality, a little matter of it being a weekend and your wife sleeping with your best friend not counting as an emergency hours call to a judge, or a priest, or whoever fixed these kinds of things._

" _I'm not married," he said, to her obvious surprise. "Anymore...I'm not married anymore."_

" _Oh," she said, clearly unsure whether to give condolences in the situation. She looked taken aback by the forceful way he declared the news, but he didn't miss the way her eyes changed when he said it._

" _I've missed you," he said, the words slipping quietly through the door that his inhibitions left open on their departure._

" _Me too." Her voice was a whisper now. People were pushing into her trying to get to the bar, but they were both grounded to the spot._

" _I can't believe you're here...of all nights."_

 _She looked at him cautiously, waiting for him to explain the distinction of the moment she'd stumbled into, but he thought better of it._

" _It's just...I think about you still. A lot."_

" _I think about you too, Rick. When I heard you'd married her, I tried to be happy for you but...I couldn't help thinking it should have been us." She looked everywhere but in his eyes, and he spotted a tiny quiver in her lip that he focused on and obsessed over as she spoke. "I know that's cruel of me to say that to you now. I don't mean to be…"_

 _He shook his head, dismissing her contrition for what it was, unnecessary and out of place between the two of them. Little did she know that acknowledgment was the kindest truth he'd been afforded that day. The rest of the facts he'd uncovered since the sun came up were the real cruelties._

 _She nodded at his pardon, daring to look at him again with her pretty, brown, doe eyes, and offered him a smile. Suddenly, his lifeless heart shook loose its funeral shroud and began to beat again._

" _Can I buy you a drink?" he asked._

" _Do you want to dance?" she said, at the same time._

 _He chuckled under his breath; she knew damn well he didn't and also that he would. She smiled again, and he stood, lifting his glass to his lips and draining it, then taking her hand to follow her to the dance floor._

…

She finished the last of her shot, setting the glass down on the bar with a flourish, and turned to him with a painted on smile. "If you're intent on recreating the night," she said, tipping her head toward the empty parquet floor. "Let's go then."

Rick quirked an eyebrow at her. The only sound in the place was the anchor of the afternoon news drifting from the ancient television perched above the bar, and the occasional clinking of glasses as the bartender kept himself busy in between pours.

When he didn't move, she hopped down from the stool, reaching for the rest of his shot and swallowing that as well. She wrapped her fingers around his tie, gathering the silky fabric in her palm and tugging gently.

Rick took hold of her wrist, squeezing until she released him, then slid his hand into hers and stood. "Come on then," he said, piercing her with his blue eyes until the smirk faded from her face. He walked her to the center of the floor, ignoring the squinted gazes and scoffs from the other patrons, and wrapped his arm around her waist, tugging her to him, hard, so that she almost stumbled against him. Michonne knew how to exert her will over him, how to keep him beside her like a dog on a leash, but he could wield her as well. Maybe not for long; she would physically leave him again, fractured and destitute in her wake, but her heart really did belong to him, that wasn't a lie, and right now he wanted to hold what was his.

The bartender, either out of pity or occupational romanticism, fiddled with the stereo system, bits of static and rock music flitting out over the speakers, until finally a quiet ballad took over for the silence.

"If I close my eyes," she whispered, "it's almost like we're years in the past, when everything I wanted was in one place."

"I don't have to close my eyes," he said, keeping them fixed on her. "Everything I want is right here in front of me. I'm going to hold onto it as long as you'll let me."

He kept her firmly in place with his fingers pressed into her back, his other hand clasped over hers and settled against his chest, and he tipped his head to rest his cheek on hers. She gasped at first, when his lips brushed the lobe of her ear, then closed her eyes and hummed her approval.

"If there's one thing my father taught me," she said, "it's that men like you don't really exist. I could give it all up, spend every night in your arms being loved by you this way...but eventually the curtain closes and the lights come on...we find out we don't know each other at all. I just buried a man I've known for twenty-seven years, whose very blood runs through my veins, but when I looked one last time, I saw a stranger in that casket."

"This is real, Michonne," he said, uttering his promise against her skin. "I'm right here in front of you, and If I don't know you, then I don't know anything at all."

He could feel her eyelashes flutter against his cheek as her eyes slipped closed, then the moist trail of her tears escaping the place where she kept them locked away. "It was worth it," she said. "Facing him today. It was worth it to be back here with you again." She slid her hand up his back, resting it in the closely cropped curls at the back of his head, and pulled his face to hers for a kiss that felt like the breaking dawn after a long and lonely night. "Take me home, Rick," she said, releasing him and running her thumb across his lips to wipe away her lipstick. "I only want to feel you right now."


	3. Chapter 3

**Part Trois**

 _He fumbled with the door, his fingers refusing to cooperate with the mundane task of turning the knob when they had far more important work to do. He felt her tugging at the tails of his plaid shirt as she wrapped her arms around his waist, finally freeing them from his pants and sliding her hands across his abs while he tried desperately to focus._

 _"Wait," he said. "I can't...just...give me a second." He smiled sheepishly at her and she released him so he could use both hands to slide the deadbolt and turn the knob. As soon as the heavy, glass-panelled door swung open, he turned, reaching for her again, and pulled her by her hips to walk them backwards into the dark, spacious foyer._

 _He hadn't left any lights on when he'd departed. The day was still taunting him with sight at that point and he hadn't given much thought to the conditions of his arrival home. He figured he'd be lucky to make it there and, if he did, he'd hopefully be drunk enough to fall for the night's deceitful offer of sleep. Now she was here with him and sleep was the last thing on his mind._

 _He led her through an archway, clumsily pawing at her clothes, into the equally dim family room, stepping over a few toy cars left haphazardly discarded that morning when his wife swept their two year old son into her arms and left in a disingenuous fit of sobs. Kicking the toys out of the way, and pushing down the bile that was burning his throat at the memory, he stumbled through the large, painfully empty house until he grew impatient at the pace they were setting. Needing her closer, he bent at the waist, hoisting her into his arms, and latched onto the smooth skin of her neck._

 _Michonne threw her head back with a quiet moan, as his tongue swept her collarbone._

 _"I can't believe you're here," he muttered, marvelling at the familiar way she reacted to him, as if they'd been transported to a different dimension where they'd never stopped touching._

 _He had to admit that his disbelief stemmed from the fact that he wasn't entirely sure how it had happened. A drink and a slow dance had melted into a private booth and an even more private conversation. They'd caught up like old friends, and touched each other like they still had the right. He'd told her about work, his promotions in the force; she'd gushed about her most recent parts and a new stage company she'd been hired on with. He'd listened as she talked about her ambitions and dreams that were still being fulfilled, trying desperately to find a way to burrow into her list of desires. Then he'd told her about the only light in his life since she'd been gone -his young son- who despite all of the tragedy that had befallen the connection that had made him, still stood alone at the list of his greatest accomplishments._

 _As the crowd around them evaporated into white noise, she'd held his hand, and he'd kissed her cheek. One of them had suggested that the night shouldn't end, and now here they were, in his home. They'd made it all the way to the threshold of his bedroom before he remembered the misery he'd endured there just that morning, when he'd come home early from an overnight shift._

 _He'd greeted his son, then turned down the hall, intent on a hot shower and a short nap, but instead he'd found his wife and his partner standing chest to chest and whispering what he imagined were the same types of declarations he was professing to Michonne now. Despite his fervent mental defense, the image burst into his consciousness again demanding to be seen._

 _He almost hadn't caught it. A step or two slower and they would have pulled away in time. But they didn't, and as he turned the corner, dragging a hand over his weary face, he looked up just in time to see Shane's hand drop from its spot tangled in Lori's long, brown waves of hair, and see the pink flush that he recognized well coloring her cheeks, and melting down her neck to her decolletage._

 _He'd stood, frozen in his spot, as his brain tried to make sense of the sight, and pain and fury danced in his belly while he tried to decide which one to call upon. As if sensing the mortal wound his father's pride had just sustained, Carl had begun to cry from the living room, a whiney howl that both of his parents recognized as a demand for attention, comfort._

 _"It's not what you think," she'd told him, but she'd never been good at lying. She'd only ever been herself, he'd just never seen her until then._

 _He wondered if he ever would have found out if he hadn't come home when he did. At first he'd thought maybe it would have been better to go on never knowing, never having seen what he saw, but standing here now with Michonne, he realized maybe it was always meant to be this way. The pain was still sharp and visceral, but so was the intense need he felt for her, as he carried her into the very same room. The violent lurch of emotions threatened to knock him off his feet, but he steadied himself, pulling her closer, and pushing on._

 _"I've missed you," Michonne said, as his knees hit the edge of the bed and he dropped her onto the soft mattress. "When I left, I knew what I was leaving behind. I guess I thought I'd get over you. I was wrong."_

 _"You stopped calling me," he whispered, as he followed her onto the bed. He dropped to his forearms above her, covering her tiny body beneath his larger one and pressed his lips to her ear as he spoke._

 _"You had moved on, Rick," she said, shivering as he continued down her neck. "I didn't want to think of you as somebody else's."_

 _"Was I supposed to wait, Michonne? I would have. I did...for two years."_

 _"I know you did." She squeezed his waist, and he pushed up on his hands to look into her eyes._

 _"You moved on," he said. "I was living on bits and pieces of you because I thought you'd come back. When you took that second part, I had to accept it. It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do."_

 _Michonne broke their stare, guilt washing over her face when she turned away. "I heard you married her from a friend," she said, her eyes drifting to the corner of the room, as if her past self had appeared there to reenact the scene. "It took me by surprise how much that hurt, thinking about what we could have been if life were less cruel. Let's be that tonight."_

 _He wanted it too, desperately. To close his eyes and be engulfed by her, by his past. To go back to a time when a woman he loved loved him too, enough to let him down easy. Michonne had left him, but she'd looked him in the eye when she did it. She'd broken his heart, but she'd never betrayed him, and being with her now confirmed his long aching suspicion that she'd never stopped loving him either. He'd give in to this feeling, he decided; once again he'd take whatever she was willing to give him. His eyes ran along the ridge of her nose, settling on her full lips, and he kissed her the way he always had, like his very breath was drawn from her lungs._

 _Michonne reached between them, working the buttons on his shirt one by one until it fell away. She pushed the fabric over his shoulders, smiling at the sight of him the same way he had when he realized she was real. Eagerly following her lead, he tugged at the hem of her sleeveless top until he could lift it over her head, and took a moment to admire the umber skin stretched across her taut tummy and full breasts. He trailed a finger over the thick line of cleavage drawn by her lacey bra, before following the same path with his tongue, the quiet moan that escaped her lips as familiar as his own name._

 _He reached for the button on her jeans, propelled like a homesick man who'd finally laid eyes on his abode, and she did the same, pushing the waistband over her hips the moment he unfastened it. He leaned back on his knees, drawing her pants down her legs until she could kick them off, then made his way back up, pausing on the way to brush his lips over every familiar landmark he encountered. When he landed at the apex of her thighs, he nuzzled his nose into her flesh, breathing her in and, in reverence to the grace by which he somehow found himself back in this place, he sobered instantly._

 _Michonne slowed too, cupping his cheek and whispering his name until he finally lifted his head. Her eyes, always so expressive, were filled with the same wonder that he felt at being back in her arms, and he crawled up to her, staring face to face with the love that had slipped through his fingers so long ago._

 _He took her face in his hands as she worked his belt free, and a tide of overwhelming completeness rushed his body when her fingers found him. His wife, even at their best, had never touched him that way, with love and lust so intertwined and indistinguishable in a single caress. He felt his chest tighten and his hips buck simultaneously, as he tried to experience the whole of the emotions surrounding being back here now._

 _When he'd finally fought his way out of the first wave of euphoria, he hooked an arm around the bend in her knee, lifting her hips to his. He waited just long enough to receive a steadfast nod from her, then joined with her with a vehement thrust, his heart singing and her eyes rolling shut at the distinct and memorable way they fit together._

 ** _..._**

 _They'd spent the night vacillating between various states of sleep and renewed arousal, but even in the morning, with the daylight streaming in from the unpulled shades, she still felt like a dream. Her chest rose and fell in time with his upward thrusts, her knees coddling him on either side and her palms flat against his chest. He'd woken the last time in a fog of juxtaposed memories, unsure for the first few moments of cognizance what part was real, until he felt her arms tight around his waist and her soft breaths fluttering through the sparse hair on his chest. It had been a long time since he'd woken up in someone's arms and the comfort of it had overwhelmed him. Almost as much as the current pleasure rippling through his body._

 _A few more moments and her arms went limp, her upper body collapsing into his arms as she released around him. Amazed he had held out that long, he eagerly followed, clinging to her as he offered her everything he had without a single hesitation._

 _"It feels the same," she said, after a few moments of sated silence. "Us." Her cheek was pressed against his chest, bending her words with heavy contentment. "I wondered from time to time if it would; if I'd ever have the chance to find out."_

 _Rick trailed his fingers along her back, contemplating the same. He'd resigned himself to the fact that he would never be here again, now it felt like he'd never been anywhere else. But he couldn't imagine away the fact that, though she was here again, she was only on loan._

 _"Are you happy there?" he asked, unsure if he was capable of hearing either answer._

 _"I have been. I'm successful, doing what I always dreamed of. But…"_

 _"But."_

 _"I've made a good life there. There's always a trade off."_

 _He was silent, understanding completely, but unwilling to commiserate since in both of their versions of that truth his heart was the compromise._

 _"And you?" she asked, tipping her chin to look up at him. "Have you been happy?"_

 _"I was happy with you," he answered, absently brushing her hair from her face. "Now I have moments. My son makes me happy."_

 _"He's with his mother?"_

 _"For now."_

 _"How long has it been?"_

 _Rick blew out a long breath. The truth somehow didn't seem accurate anymore. The last twenty four hours might as well have been years, now that she was here. It might have never happened at all; he still couldn't be sure. He hugged her to him and rolled to switch their positions, hoping to interrupt the line of questioning._

 _Michonne settled into the pillow beneath him, smiling as he captured her bottom lip lightly between his teeth. "You don't want to talk about it," she said when he released her, and she reached up to smooth his tousled hair beneath her fingers. She'd always been physical, finding some way to connect their bodies in any situation. It was something he remembered about her often in the days and weeks after he'd learn to go without the comforting touch of a woman. "You always had me figured out, Rick," she reminded him, "but I know you too."_

 _"It doesn't matter when or how," he answered around the lump in his throat._

 _"No," she said, shaking her head. "The how is always important. How we ended was."_

 _He sighed in agreement. How they ended was more than important; it was the great unfinished business of his life and, even now, it had yet to be usurped. "She left me," he confessed through clenched teeth and a steel jaw. "Not like you did, though. She left me for another man."_

 _Her eyes began to well at his words. He knew the details would pain her. Her ability to so vividly convey the essence of another soul on stage had always been drawn from a well of empathy, the depths of which he knew to be unique to her. "There are no other men, Rick," she replied, wistfully. "You've got the patent. There are only other excuses."_

 _"What about you?" he whispered, prodding his open wound a little further. "Do you have an excuse?"_

 _She looked at him with a knowing exasperation. His habit of asking questions he didn't want to know the answer to had always been a point of contention. "You know me," she finally said, turning her head to look out the window and away from his eyes. "I've never been late to a party without an excuse."_

 _"No, I don't suppose you ever have," he said. He wanted to laugh at her metaphor, so typically her, but he was a doomed man walking to the gallows and he couldn't muster it. He glanced down at their flesh, pressed intimately together in a post-coital embrace, then back at her. "Is this you finally arrivin' Michonne?"_

 _"I don't know what this is, Rick," she said, as a tear that had been suspended in her lashes leapt onto her cheek and bolted, before it could be swept away. "I'm here for two more days."_

 _"I want more," he said, pushing up onto his arm to recapture her gaze. "This...us running into each other again...it means somethin'. It has to after all this time. It's how I found you again...and the how is always important. Don't go."_

 _"Rick...it's not that simple."_

 ** _..._**

Rick opened his eyes again to an empty space beside him. His gaze flitted to the pillowcase, finding it void of her sleeping head, but his heart was calm. He knew she was still there. He couldn't explain how, he just sensed her; sensed that his world was still complete for the time being. The scent of her spicy perfume greeting him as he blinked a few times face down in the mattress where she had been laying beside him.

It was early evening according to the darkness that had enveloped his bedroom while they napped. The dim light wasn't enough to leave him blind, but enough to disorient him, since the sun had still been streaming in when he last touched her. He rubbed at his bleary eyes and smiled a little at the circumstance. He'd slept more in the past two days than he could remember ever having the luxury of in this bed.

He pulled himself up to sitting, listening for her footfalls, or any indication as to what part of his cheerless home she was gracing with her light and beauty. The cold air rushed his bare legs, as he swung them over the side of the bed and tossed the sheet aside. He found his boxer shorts on the floor, pulling them over his hips, before rummaging through a half open drawer for a sweatshirt which he left unzipped, and hanging open. Padding on bare feet through the threshold of his room, her lingering scent was quickly replaced by the aromatic smell of butter cooking, and he began to make out the soft sound of her humming coming from the kitchen.

"You don't have any eggs," she said, as he stepped into the adjacent living room. She kept her eyes on the stove top, whisking a bowl furiously with one hand and tipping a skillet from side to side with the other. "Or vanilla…"

Rick continued his approach, not stopping until he was pressed against her back, clad in his t-shirt and nothing else. He peered greedily over her shoulder at the way the cotton draped loosely over her perky breasts, and allowed himself to entertain the vision of the two of them sharing morning meals and late night snacks together whenever their days allowed.

"What're you makin'?" he asked, circling her waist with his arms and setting his chin on her shoulder.

"Crepes. Well...sort of. Your kitchen isn't well stocked. I'm starting to agree with your sister-in-law. What exactly do you eat?"

He shrugged, releasing her to her task as he strode across the room to the refrigerator to find a jar of strawberry preserves he'd received in a gift basket at work and hadn't known what to do with. "I eat out," he explained.

"Alone?" she asked, flirtatiously.

She was trying to be cute, but he couldn't help but be reminded that divorce hadn't only taken his family, but his closest friend too. Shane and Lori ate their meals together now. Who did he really have left to dine with, with her half-way across the world? He offered her a vague grunt in response and scratched at the five o'clock shadow that had darkened his face while he slept.

Michonne switched off the burner and lifted the pan onto a trivet he didn't even know he owned, before opening the cabinet doors to search for plates. He beat her to it, fishing some out of the one nearest to him and handing them over.

"The last time I had a little more to work with," she said, setting the plates on the small counter space beside the old stove. She smiled as she reminded him of the breakfast she had cooked them before the most recent time she left. She'd found her way easily around Lori's large, well-supplied kitchen, before he'd confessed how fateful the timing had actually been.

"When do you go back?" he asked, leaning casually against the counter and watching her serve up the flattened cakes.

"You're trying to get rid of me?" she asked, cheekily, spinning on her toes to smile at him.

"You know I'm not."

"Tomorrow," she said. Her smile dropped at the declaration and she turned toward the table, setting the plates down beside two napkins she'd already arranged. "I hope I don't starve before then."

He chuckled at her joke, taking the seat beside her and thanking her with a kiss on the cheek as he sat. "I would have taken you out to dinner," he said, glancing at the clock to confirm his assessment of the hour. "Somewhere nice with fancy food and white napkins."

"And you would have hated every minute of it," she laughed. "But I wanted to stay here...keep you to myself."

Rick dipped his head, another proclamation of his longing for the same forming on his tongue, but he swallowed it, not wanting her to see just how pitiful his pining could be.

She covered her crepes with the fruit spread and he watched her intently, taking mental notes on the proper way to consume them. She must have noticed, because she moved onto his plate next, applying a thick dressing of sugar and fruit on his, before folding it neatly and pushing the plate back to him.

She smiled, pleased with her creation. "My bag is still at my sister's," she said casually, looking down at her stolen outfit as she chewed.

"I can take you there."

"Tomorrow," she said around another bite. "My train isn't until the afternoon."

The specifics of her departure began to sink into his chest, as he pushed his food around on his plate, and it rendered him a sort of melancholy mute for the remainder of the meal.

Michonne could never stand the silence he sometimes dissolved into, when he retreated into his own head to dwell and stew, so she chatted enough for the both of them. She talked about the weather in Paris, the friends she had, though, she was careful not to mention one in particular. He listened, content to hear her voice suffused with serenity after the events of the day, but longing for something with substance, something that might hurt but needed to be said one way or another. They'd fallen into an almost domestic routine after two days and it neither surprised nor upset him. He'd been here before, playing along as if this was really it, and praying the whole thing would somehow become his reality again. But he knew better than to let it go on too long, lest his heart start to really believe it.

She smiled as he scraped the last bites of his meal onto his fork and into his mouth, waiting to sweep up their plates and ferry them to the sink.

"Leave it," he said, as she dropped them in and started to run the water. "I'll do it later."

He followed her across the room, kissing her cheek again to convince her not to waste another minute of their remaining time on housework. She had seemingly give in, when a muffled rendition of the violin aria O Mio Babbino Caro began to sound from his bedroom down the hall. His lip curled upward into a smile at the fitting ringtone she'd chosen, and she smiled back as she glided past him to retrieve her phone.

Rick wandered into the living room, taking a seat on the couch to wait, when he heard her answer in French. Despite his manners and his better judgement telling him not to, he lent an ear to the conversation, straining to hear the words and struggling to translate them, as she spoke quickly and fluently. Even without the context, he noticed she sounded annoyed by the call at first, then somewhat regretful, and then he heard her laugh, sweet and girlish, in a way that set his jaw to steel. Before he could stop himself, he was back on his feet, walking quickly down the hall to his room and swinging the door open with more force than he'd meant to.

Michonne was perched on the edge of his bed, one leg tucked underneath her, the other stretched gracefully out in front of her, and she stared at him with wide eyes, startled.

He leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed and head cocked, watching her as she spoke to the caller. He couldn't understand much, but he knew the man's name and that was all he needed to hear.

"Je serai bientôt à la maison", she said. "Désolé, je dois partir."

Rick strode toward her and plucked the phone from her hand, tossing it on the same mattress where he'd just had every part of her. She narrowed her eyes at him, but he wasn't fazed.

"Enough," he said, firmly.

She moved to push herself off of the bed, but he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder, then stood before her, both his expression and his voice darkening.

"Enough, Michonne. Enough of this. Tell me something, is he…" he took a deep breath, steadying himself. "Is he standing in the other room when you call me? Listenin' to all the thangs you say to me?"

"No," she said simply, her face set stern.

"Why?"

"Because the things I say to you, they're between us. I told you, Rick, it's not the same with him. Not like this." She gestured between the two of them, but he took a step back, distancing himself from the indication he was suddenly wary of.

"Then why do it, Michonne? Why settle for half of what I can give you?"

"I already told you that, too," she said, turning over her shoulder to wipe at her eyes.

"Look at me, Michonne," he growled. She obeyed, all of the fight drained from her face. "You think this isn't real, right? You think you don't really know me? Well, lemme remind you: I've never been good at talkin' about what's in my head. I'm impatient and maybe… maybe I'm selfish, cause I don't like sharing you. I don't make my bed in the mornin' and I can't cook for shit. You hate those things about me, but you know all of them!" He turned toward the window then, running a hand over his face, before using it to gesture to the air. "Just like...just like I know you're being a smart ass half the time you're talkin'," he said. "You're always cold even in the summer, and you're a damn snob, Michonne, but it's because you work hard to be the best and you don't tolerate any less from other people. None of this is a fairytale. We're just two regular people who are better together. Hell, I'm not even sure I'm entirely sane when you're not around. None of this is too good to be true, but it is too good to let go. You know it is."

He looked at her expectantly, pleading with her to finally acknowledge his assertions that they both knew to be true, but she was silent for awhile. Finally her voice cracked, and she spoke.

"You're not selfish, Rick. You've never been selfish."

She was crying, her head tipped up to the ceiling so her tears plunged sharply from the cliff of her cheekbone, meeting their end on the soft cotton of his shirt. The sight nearly broke him. He wanted to pull her into his arms, wipe away the sorrow and confusion from her face, but the enough was for him too. He wouldn't comfort her into leaving him again.

"Maybe you're right," she said, after taking a moment to gather her composure and banish any weakness from her voice, "Maybe you're the love of my life and I'll never find anything close to what we have. Still, how can you ask me to give up all I've accomplished? How can you ask me to choose?"

"Life's about choices, Michonne. But like you said, there ain't a lot of 'em. I should have chosen differently back then. I should have gone with you. If I could do it again, I would give up everything for you, but now I have a son and I can't leave him. So, you're right, it's unfair of me to ask, but I'm going to anyway. Don't leave me again. I'll spend the rest of my life making sure it's the right choice."

Her silent lamenting crumbled into audible sobs and her shoulders began to shake, but he still didn't touch her. His hands hung at his sides, restlessly, and he tipped his face to the floor, closing his eyes to the sight of her pain.

"I don't know what to say," she uttered, running her hand beneath her nose and sniffling. "I have a flight booked. I have a performance at the end of the week. I can't just...stay."

Rick didn't speak; he'd exhausted all of his words and not for the first time, so he continued his silence, letting his plea hang between them. He felt her fingers touch his chest then, and stretch out over his heart, but he didn't look. She leaned forward, her damp cheek resting on the rippled plane of his abs, and he clenched his eyes shut harder, before finally resting a tentative hand on the back of her head.

"Give me more time," she whispered, her thick, heart-shaped lips brushing against his skin as she spoke. "You asked me, now I'm asking you...wait for me."

Rick blew a long breath from his nose that ended in a short laugh. As pathetic as it was, that was all he needed to hear. For the last six months, since they'd been reunited, he'd been waiting, living like a starving man on scraps of late night conversations and promises he knew better than to believe. But you don't turn away from a sip of water because you're in desperate need of a cup. He'd sip from her until he died of thirst if that's all she offered.

"Then you wait for me too," he pressed. "No more Michael." He let his drawl butcher the Frenchman's name on purpose. He'd already admitted to his biggest faults, he wasn't above adding pettiness to the list. "If you're mine, be mine. Wherever you are."

She nodded, tearfully, turning her face to kiss along the waistband of his shorts. "Je suis à vous, Rick," she said, softly.

He took ahold of her chin, tipping it until two glistening brown pools shimmered up at him. "Say it right," he said with a smile.

Her mouth curled upward and her eyes spilled again, as she chuckled softly, "I'm yours."

He slid his fingers up to her neck, clutching her hair again, and pressed her against him while his heart beat wildly in his chest. Her arms wrapped around his waist and he felt her dark painted nails press into his back as she clung to him.

"Je suis à vous, aussi," he said, slowly, but with perfect pronunciation. "Always."

 **xxxx**

 **A/N Your reviews on this story have been making my life. Thank you all for reading and reviewing. xoxoxo**


	4. Chapter 4

**Part Quatre**

 _Rick sat on the edge of her bed, his head in his hands. He was trying not to look as gutted as he felt, but failing miserably. Michonne was laying on her side behind him, her knees pulled into her belly and she was crying without making a sound. He wasn't sure what to make of the silence; filling it was never his first inclination, but if he could just find the right words to say, maybe..._

" _When do you leave?" he finally asked, keeping his eyes trained on the large window beside them. He'd spent a hundred or more nights gazing out at that view, his arms wrapped around her as she slept; both of them content, happy. He couldn't imagine how he was ever going to go back to before Michonne._

" _Two weeks." She reached a hand out to him, flattening her palm against his back and it already felt different. They'd been inseparable since the night they'd met, when he ditched his friend and his plans, and they spent an hour walking the expansive campus where she studied, his coat around her shoulders, then her arm hooked in his. They both had places to be that night, commitments to attend to, but they also understood that they'd just stumbled upon something that couldn't be ignored. Within days, they understood that the only way any of it made sense was if they were fulfilling some preordained destiny. How this news fit into that was something he hadn't yet been able to work out._

" _Maybe I'll flop," she said, breaking the solemn silence. "Maybe I'll be back here next year, a washed up actor looking for a nine to five downtown, just like everyone else I graduated with."_

 _It was supposed to be a conciliatory maybe, but she was offering it to the wrong critic. From the day after they met, when he'd gone back to the university to catch her matinee performance, he knew she would be special to more than just him. But he hadn't anticipated her moving to the other side of the world to prove him right._

" _I can't help but doubt it, Michonne. Of all places...I don't understand why you have to go to France to do this."_

" _I've already gained attention in this role, Rick. The audition is a formality...it's a chance to be part of a full scale production."_

" _How 'bout Broadway?" he said, his pride begging to be allowed to die gracefully, but he was clinging to it as best he could. "You wanna move to New York? L.A.? Let's go...we'll go together."_

" _I don't have an offer on Broadway, Rick," she whispered. "They want me there." She let her hand fall away from him then, wrapping it around her midsection, just above the sheet that covered only her hips._

" _I want you," he said, turning over his shoulder to look her in the eye. "Marry me."_

" _Rick…"_

" _I mean it." He readjusted, settling on his knees beside her. "I'll take care of you, of everything. You can focus on making all your dreams come true...here."_

 _He saw the pain on her face dissolve into pity, but he didn't care. If his self-respect was the last of his currency with her, he would gladly part with it._

" _My father had the same dream as me once," she said, quietly. "From what I've heard he was good at it. A natural. And not just theater, he was destined for the big screen to hear other people tell it. But he never had the courage to do what it took, to leave this place. He missed his chance, and everything that came after became a constant reminder of what he could have been. My mother, my sister and I, we were like his consolation prize and he hated us for it." She sat up then, touching his hair, and he leaned his head into her hand as his eyes slipped closed. "I know what it's like to be the reason for someone else's bitterness," she said. "I don't want that for you, Rick. Not you."_

 _He nodded slightly, feigning an understanding he didn't possess. He was trying to be rational, but he couldn't help but think that being resented by her for the rest of their lives was still better than being left by her. "So that's it then?" he said. He wrapped his arms around her and lowered them back to the mattress, and she opened her arms so that his head could rest in the crook of her neck. "I have you for two more weeks?"_

" _You'll always have a piece of me," she whispered. "I never saw you coming, Rick. I'll never find anything close to what we have. I know that."_

" _But it's not enough to stay."_

 _Her tears sprang to life again then, cutting her words with choked despair. "Who knows?" she cried, clutching him to her. "Maybe we'll meet again someday. Or maybe you'll forget all about me after awhile."_

" _No, Michonne," he said, as sure as he'd ever been of anything. "I won't."_

…

Rick laced their fingers as he walked beside her to the gate, pulling her luggage slowly behind them. The cold had turned more bitter on this last day, with a cover of low hanging clouds holding any warmth the sun offered hostage in the stratosphere, and threatening to spill their contents at a moment's notice.

They'd gone to her sister's that morning, after making love one last time, and he'd made small talk with her family while Michonne dressed and packed, all the while feeling his stomach threaten to expel the meager breakfast they'd shared. The sensation still hadn't subsided, and now his lungs were also betraying him, rejecting the very air he was trying to take in and forcing him to take sharp, shallow breaths that did little to sustain any substantial flow of oxygen to his brain. The result was a mild dizziness and the odd perception of being out of his body, watching as two people, desperately in love, prepared to say goodbye for a reason he'd never felt was good enough.

He took solace in the fact that she gripped him back this time; the disparate level of emotional exposure displayed in their greeting had shifted to a more equitable allocation of agony. Just as when she'd departed from their last reunion, she was visibly shaken by the prospect of leaving him; of once again betting against her true heart. That time he'd asked too much and told her too little. But this time...

"It hurts more this time," she said, "...each time." They stepped onto the wooden platform, approaching the doors of the station lobby, and she hesitated just enough to cause a beat to skip inside his chest.

"I know."

She turned toward him, touching his cheek with her leather clad fingers. He covered her warm hand with his cold one, tipping his head to the sky and pulling in a long breath of air. She laughed quietly then, as her eyes spilled freely, and with abandon. "I supposed you do."

They could hear the whistle of the incoming train in the distance, reminding them that their days together had dwindled to minutes, and he reached for her, wrapping an arm around her waist and clutching a handful of her wool coat between his fingers. Shutting his eyes to the world, he hoped to fill all of his secondary senses with her essence; the feel of her body pressed against his, the scent of her hair and skin, the taste of the love they'd made that morning lingering on his tongue and threatening to drive him mad. Maybe that ship had already sailed, though, when he'd decided to take such an irrational chance on loving a woman like her.

The ache in his chest doubled when he felt her shudder with sobs against him. He'd selfishly assumed he bore the weight of all of their pain, but he could see now they shared the burden. Only one of them had the ability to set the world right, however, and he couldn't see her off without another promise. "We can't leave it up to chance," he said. "Another wedding or a funeral…"

He felt her nod against his soft, suede jacket. "We won't."

"Then when?"

"This show ends in six months. Give me until then."

"I told you I'd wait. I will."

"And next time I'll stay longer...maybe I can finally meet Carl."

"I'd like that," he said with a nod, the thought offering him at least a little bit of comfort.

The doors to the station opened then, and a rush of travelers filled the space around them, cloaking them behind a curtain of mass preoccupation. She took the opportunity to kiss him, harder than he'd expected. "I'll call you as soon as I can," she promised.

"When you land."

"It will be two in the morning here," she laughed between sniffles.

"I don't care."

"Ok...I promise."

"That's you," he said, as a muffled voice announced that the current train was boarding.

"That's me." She pulled away from his embrace, turning over her shoulder to see the line beginning to form. "Rick…"

"I love you, Michonne," he said, wanting to say it before she could choose a safer parting declaration, but she surprised him.

"I love you too," she said. "These last two days…"

"I know." He kissed her one more time and he did know it. She was a little closer, a little less sure now, and he would take it.

"I'll call you then." She dipped her head, wiping at her eyes, and reached for the hard handle of her rolling luggage. Taking a step toward the train, slowly, she let her arm stretch out all the way, before her fingers finally slipped from his.

Rick watched her climb the short, metal steps, and disappear into the car, hoping to catch a glimpse of her purple coat in one of the windows as she searched for a seat. He didn't though, and a few moments later the whistle sounded again and the train lurched. The loud groan of steel on steel barely registered in his brain as he struggled to conjure the sound of her voice, and play it on a loop in his head.

When the long tail of smoke had finally dissipated, and he was once again alone on the platform, he looked down at his boots, willing them to move until somehow he made it back to his truck, then eventually back to his house.

When he arrived at his door, he turned his key in the lock, the familiar double click the only greeting he received as he entered through the door and toed off his boots. He padded down the quiet hallway and into his bedroom and fell face first into the unmade covers. Settling his head on his bent arm, he beckoned back all of the pieces of her that he had committed to memory, and wrapped himself in them for the much needed respite of sleep.

…

 _Rick's brain pounded out a message of displeasure against his skull as he took to the large, chocolate brown sectional. He was attempting to trick his body into reclaiming some of the sleep he'd forfeited with a change of venue, but the bright midday sun reflected off of the hardwood floors, bouncing around the room and assaulting his eyes from the other side of his lids. Between that and the anomalous silence that settled into the hole left by his family, it seemed the entire room was staging a preemptive strike against his rest._

 _It had been two days; two days since he'd held his son; two days since the bar. He'd spent the previous day an impromptu plus-one at Michonne's sister's wedding. Her family had been ecstatic to see him, greeting him with a flurry of excited embraces and sentimental smiles._

 _It was as if they'd all been praying the same prayer as him and the sight of them together was some divine antiphon. The connection they had, the intensity, it wasn't lost on bystanders, and the women who loved her and hoped for her return, knew he was their best shot._

 _It had felt strange to smile, knowing exactly how he'd landed in what he still feared was a dream, but he had. He'd smiled, and laughed, and danced with her in his arms, barely registering the torn heartstrings that dangled inside his chest; the painful severing of which allowed him to be there freely, and with no question of conscience. It should have hurt more, he thought, forcing himself to conjure some guilt to accompany his mirth. But the undeniable joy he felt at his good fortune wouldn't allow it._

 _He had only been trying to escape the waking world for a few moments, when he heard a knock on the door. From the corner of his foggy brain, part of him had hoped for a split second that it would be her, answering his plea for her to stay. But he'd dropped her at the train himself; watched her wave goodbye from the postage stamp sized window, and she'd already called to say she was boarding the trans-Atlantic flight that would whisk her away from him again. He pulled himself from his supine position, the sound of his boots on the floor echoing into the void as he crossed to the door._

 _When he opened it, his fists clenched at his side and his eyes narrowed as he took in his old friend standing on the doorstep. Shane's shoulders were hunched, but he peered up at him unapologetically from beneath his bowed and tilted brow._

" _Why are you here, Shane?" he asked, the rasp of his parched throat lending itself to the ire he wished to convey._

" _Lori wanted me to pick a few things up." He met Rick's eyes in a self-assured stare he'd hardly earned from his position._

 _Rick stepped aside, suddenly finding the thought of her stuff being hauled off soothing to his furious heart. He turned his back, taking a few steps in the opposite direction to put a distance between himself and the anger he hadn't yet had a chance to tame._

 _Shane strode straight to their bedroom and the ease with which the other man made the journey wasn't lost on him. It only took a few moments for him to gather bits and pieces of Rick's life and pack them up for their new home. When he had stuffed a bag full of clothes and toiletries, he stepped back into the living room, his hands on his hips and his head bowed once again._

" _This thing with you and Lori," Shane said, keeping his eyes on the ground. "What ya'll been doing…"_

" _You mean my marriage?" Rick spat._

" _We both know what it was, Rick. And we both know it wasn't what either of you thought it would be. Truth is, you never had any business offering her what you did. See, your heart wasn't yours to give anymore, and you knew that."_

 _Rick spun on his heel, running a hand through his hair and retreating from his friend and the accusations he thought he had the right to make, even while Lori's scent still lingered on his skin._

 _He stepped briskly into the kitchen, and the first vision that popped into his head wasn't of his Lori, or the two years worth of meals and conversation they'd shared there, but it was of Michonne. It was of the bottle of wine they'd shared there the night before, both tipsy and fresh off of the high of watching two people who loved each other pledge to never be apart. The two of them sat at the long, granite island, sipping, and talking, and feeling utterly enamoured with each other once again._

 _Shane followed, lingering in the doorway, watching him sort silently through his thoughts. Maybe Shane was right; maybe he did hold some of the blame. There was only one woman who his empty heart was missing, and it wasn't the one whose personal effects were packed into the bag his friend was holding. Still, the fact remained that regardless of whom he'd given his best to, or whom he'd wished he could, currently he was alone._

" _I think you should go," Rick said, placing his palms on the counter and leaning all his weight against it._

" _I love her," Shane replied. "I have for awhile now, and it's time she gets that from someone. Of all people, you should understand what that means." He turned then, agreeing that their time for constructive words had ended. Rick heard the doorknob turn and the slight squeak of the hinges as Shane prepared to leave. "Lori never had a chance with you, Rick," he said as he stepped out into the light of day. "Anyone could see that."_

…

Sleep had proven a poor substitute for Michonne's company, so Rick made his way back to the living room. It was finally raining, after threatening to do so since the morning had broken. Even the weather knew to mourn the moment, he supposed. He leaned over the couch, pulling the curtains closed to block the somber view, and turned on a table lamp. The dreary light of a winter afternoon was replaced by the cozy, yellow glow and the room felt warmer already. With nothing else to occupy his time, he meandered around, straightening up the room and clearing the kitchen of the remnants of their last meal together.

Though he was acutely aware of her absence, he didn't feel like breaking. She'd left him with just enough hope to keep him from dissolving into the same puddle of self-pity he had become after the first two farewells. This time, she'd be back. Before they'd said goodbye to her family, and headed to her train, her sister had told him the same. It was time, she'd explained. Michonne should be proud of what she accomplished, but the kind of love that he offered her was what she'd truly been chasing all these years. She just had to realize that for herself. It had been six years, and even if they didn't have a plan, he finally had a promise; it was more than he'd ever had to hold when she'd left before.

He rinsed off the dishes they'd dirtied, swirling warm, sudsy water in a wine glass that still had a bit of her lipstick around the rim, but stopping short of wiping it away. Instead he piled everything in the sink and stared absently out the window at the street. The rain was heavier now, the drops thundering against the roof and windows on a sideways breeze that splayed them out in a wall of water against the panes. Every few minutes the sound got sharper as a few of them turned to ice and pelted the walls. He switched on another light and walked a few more steps into the living room intending on lighting a fire to keep him company. Before he made it to the hearth, however, the sound of tires caught his attention, sloshing to a stop in the standing water that had collected outside. With the curtains drawn, he had no sightline to the street, so he abandoned his route and pivoted toward the door just as a frantic knock called to him from the other side. He pulled it open in a rush of cold, wet air and there she was, soaked to the bone and smiling, as a cab pulled away down the nearly flooded street.

His eyes darted around her face for a few seconds, hoping he wasn't falling victim to a hallucination of materialized longing. Finally, she chuckled out his name, snapping his senses back like a rubber band, and he reached for her waist, pulling her out of the rain and into his firm embrace.

"What…how?" he stuttered out, before his lips abandoned the question and pressed excitedly against her cheek instead.

"I missed my flight," she laughed, wrapping her arms around his waist and burrowing into his affection and the warmth his body provided against the still howling wind. "I couldn't think straight, Rick, and I couldn't stop crying." She spoke against his chest, as he reluctantly let her go with one hand to shut the door behind her. He led them to the couch and pulled her down beside him. "I went to the wrong gate," she explained, as he pulled a blanket from the end of the couch and wrapped it around her shoulders. "By the time I figured out which way I was supposed to go, the plane had left and I was still here. You tried to tell me, Rick, the last time I was here, you said this was the how and I didn't believe you, but, as the plane took off without me, it felt...right."

He pushed her shoulders out, his eyes running the length of her as he studied her words for their fidelity. "It is right," he said, finally, his mouth twitching into a tentative smile.

"I don't know how it's going to work; what I'll do…"

"We'll figure it out," he said. He leaned in to kiss her again, her wet hair falling over his cheek as he tipped his face to hers.

"We will," she agreed, in between passionate pecks. "Tomorrow...or the next day. I just know I'm not supposed to leave tonight. I'm supposed to stay here with you."

 **XXXXXXXXXX**

 **A/N: Thanks for reading reviewing :). The next installment will be the last.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Épilogue**

Each step from the soles of Rick's dress shoes echoed across the marble floor, as he meandered around the ornate lobby. With a bright bouquet of the finest lilies he could find tucked under his arm, he busied himself by taking in the architecture of the centuries old building. Thick, impressive columns sprouted from the polished stone and reached their way toward a domed ceiling; chandeliers made of hundreds of crystals hung in a long row up the center, throwing light that twinkled and danced around the room and offered the perfect luminessence as guests milled about in posh evening wear, sharing accolades and wine. A hum of excited conversation swirled around him, too quick and enthusiastic for him to follow, but he felt the tone in the air: the crowd was impressed. She had come a long way from community theater, he mused with a proud smile.

He stood with his hands on his hips and glanced again at the door he'd been watching for the last forty-five minutes, since the lights came up and the crowd bubbled into their current location. He'd already finished two glasses of wine while he waited, and with the night still relatively young, he was ready to have her all to himself again.

He'd become greedy with her time. On her last visit home they'd barely left the house, his inclination to make up for every minute they'd spent apart turning him into a sort of hermit who was more than happy to trade all the light the day had to offer just to bask in her radiance. She'd never allow it tonight though, especially not here, so he would settle for a night on the town, being dragged from old haunt to trendy new locale, until she was exhausted enough to let him take her home and finally have his way.

He was imagining all the ways he would have, when he heard the quick clip of heels behind him. He turned just in time to catch her, as she threw herself against his chest with a gleaming smile. His arm contracted around her waist and he lifted her off the floor, her full skirt billowing on the air as the momentum spun them around. He held her, suspended off the ground and in the moment, as her hands found either side of his face and she kissed him as if he were the only other person in the room.

"What did you think?" she asked, breathless from her flourished greeting as he finally lowered her back to earth.

He smiled amusedly, as if he would have been anything less than enchanted. She had to know his critical opinion was meritless when it came to her.

"It was beautiful," he said smartly, recalling another moment in time. "Heartbreakin' actually."

He handed her the bouquet and she beamed back at him, her smile so genuine that it made her nose crinkle adorably in delight. He pressed a finger to the tip of it, dragging it downward until he tugged her lips apart and covered them again with his own.

"Michonne," he heard a voice call from behind him, and he reluctantly released her tongue so she could respond. They both turned over his shoulder to see a handsome man in a tailored suit and shiny black shoes approach. Her arms still wrapped around Rick's waist beneath his jacket, and her chest pressed against his, her wide grin thinned to a more professional tight-lipped smile as she greeted the new arrival.

"Bonjour, Michael. Félicitations pour ta belle performance."

"Oui," he replied, his smile now pointed toward Rick. "Et vous aussi. C'est ton cow-boy américain, non?"

"Oui, c'est lui. C'est Rick."

"The one who got away," the man chuckled, reaching his hand out in gentlemanly concession.

"I'm here now," Rick replied, as he shook the man's hand.

"Oui. Et elle part pour l'amour...off she goes for love." Michael reached for Michonne's hand, pressing his lips to her knuckles, then he offered Rick one more nod and smile, before disappearing back into the crowd.

"I'm sorry," she said, her eyes fixed on his face, not bothering to catch Michael's retreat.

He shook his head, dropping his own watch on the man in favor of another glance at her ivory, sleeveless dress and gold, strappy heels. "Where to now?" he asked, planting one more possessive kiss to her jaw for anyone else who might be wondering. He'd finally reclaimed the right.

"Home," she whispered into his ear.

Her breath was warm on his skin as she spoke, and he wasted no time taking her up on the surprising suggestion, lacing his fingers with hers and heading for the door.

…

The old blonde-bricked row house had no elevator, and Michonne's flat was on the sixth floor. They took the stairs as quickly as their entangled bodies would let them, refusing to break the kiss that started beneath the antique gas lamps of the main entrance, and continued until they finally came to a halt at her door. She pulled away, just far enough to fish her keys out of her purse, and his mouth settled on her collarbone, left enticingly exposed by the off the shoulder cut of her formalwear. She spun in his embrace, his lips simply holding on for the ride until they could continue their work on the back of her neck.

The door swung open and Rick swept an arm beneath her legs and one around her shoulders, lifting her over the threshold as she giggled, and carrying her across the wooden floor to one of the only pieces of furniture left in the empty room. He placed her onto the grey, tufted chaise, dropping to his knee beside her, to capture her mouth again. She slid her palms into his jacket, pushing the garment over his shoulders, until he was forced to let her go and shimmy out of the sleeves.

"The door." She smiled, glancing past him to where her keys still dangled from the knob, and he tossed his jacket onto the pile of their luggage stacked neatly on the floor, loosening his tie as he went to secure the entrance. When he turned back around, she was unfastening the dainty straps of her heels and kicking them to the floor.

"There's champagne in the fridge," she said. He went to retrieve it while she slipped her dangly earrings from her lobes, palming them and walking on bare feet to the bathroom. Rick watched her drop the jewelry into the small travel bag that she had saved out for toiletries, sitting on the back of the pedestal sink beside his razor and toothbrush.

She unclasped her necklace next, tucking it safely away, then retrieved her flowers from the chaise where they had landed. After finding a vase and filling it with the bouquet, she came to meet him as he placed two glasses on a cardboard box that would serve as a coffee table. She reached up to finish removing his tie, then started in on the top button of his shirt, before he stopped her.

"Let's toast first," he said, grabbing her hand, and pressing his lips to her knuckles.

"Out here." She led him through a narrow glass door and out onto a balcony perched high above the city that had kept her from him all these years, and had been playing host to their reunion for the last few days.

Rick's gaze swept the sprawling view of the city, still very much alive on the clear summer night. Rows of buildings just like hers carried on for miles before them, distinguished only by a palate of whimsical hues that heralded each entryway. The twinkling lights of the nightlife lay just beyond, like kneeling servants at the feet of the one glowing tower that stood visible from almost any vantage point. It was enchanting, and almost otherworldly to a simple man like him but, then again, so was she.

"I can see why you love it here," he said against her ear, as she settled between him and the wrought iron railing, covered with climbing ivy.

She agreed with a hum and pulled at his arms until they were secure around her waist. "But not like I love you."

Her voice had a satisfaction to it that made his heart dance inside his chest, and he could only nod, the thickness in his throat leaving her declaration unreturned for the moment.

Suddenly remembering the bottle in his hands, he kissed her cheek and let her go, stepping to a clear spot on the railing to loosen the cork. He pointed it to the sky and released it into the night with a celebratory pop. A gush of cold froth followed, bubbling up from the neck of the bottle, and pouring over his thumb and forefinger in an exuberant rush to join the moment. He quickly pulled the glass to his smiling lips, drinking in the spill before some poor, unsuspecting pedestrian below fell victim to it. Michonne laughed, throwing her head back in joy, then, ignoring the proper flutes lying in wait only a few feet away, she reached for the bottle and took her own sip.

"What should we toast to?" he asked.

"To third chances," she said, wiping the moisture away from her lips with the back of her hand.

"To third chances." He pulled her to him with a tug of her arm, until her back rested against his chest and he circled her waist with his arms. He finished the toast with a slow kiss on her neck.

"I'm glad you got to see it," she said, after a few silent moments of drinking in the atmosphere and the booze.

"Me too." His thumb stroked the smooth front of her dress as he spoke, and she reached behind her to run her fingers through his hair. "As soon as you get settled, we'll look for a nicer place. I know you're gonna miss all this fancy stuff."

"You're the only thing I've ever missed in my life," she replied, her voice dropping to a contemplative whisper. "It took me a long time to figure that out, but now I have you back, and that's all I need."

"Me too," he said, moving his hands to her hips and spinning her around to face him. The champagne and the intoxicating evening willed an end to the verbal communication and they walked backward into the barren living area, past her shoes and his jacket, and through a grand archway of ornate moulding that led to her bedroom. Only her bed remained, the rest of the room having been packed up and either shipped or sold in preparation of her departure. The duvet was still twisted at the foot of it, crumpled from their previous tryst.

Michonne stepped away from him, turning around so that he could unzip her dress and free her from the only obstacle left between them. He was quick to comply, and the dress fell away from her body, leaving her draped in only the thin, white lace of her panties. His hands couldn't help themselves, reaching out to touch her skin before she could step out of the puddle of fabric at her feet. He stepped to her, skirting his fingers up her belly to cup her breast, while his other hand went to work on his own buttons. When his shirt joined her dress on the floor, he lowered her onto the bed, and came to rest above her on, sweeping her long locs away from her neck and kissing down the slope of her shoulder. She rolled to face him, her hands working his belt free as he smiled down at her.

"I don't know how I went without you for so long," she whispered, as she pushed his pants over his hips, taking him in her hands.

"I want to hear you say it again," he said, burying his face in the hollow of her throat and slowly removing her fingers from his length and replacing them with his own.

"Je suis à vous," she breathed out. He nudged the inside of her thigh until she opened all the way and hovered patiently at her entrance. "I'm yours," she repeated, more desperately. "Je suis à vous, Rick."

"Pour toujours?" he asked, his own breath starting to hitch in his throat at the anticipation.

"Forever."

He slid his thumb across her cheek to catch the tears that burst from her smiling eyes, and pushed into her waiting warmth with a low growl. "Forever."

 **...**

Rick stepped out of the taxi, holding the door and offering her his hand as she climbed out behind him into the warm, misting rain. His fingers pressed against her back, and their luggage trailing behind them, he maneuvered them down the sidewalk and through the glass doors that lead to their terminal. They'd woken early, showering together, then dressing and packing the last of her clothes and personal items into her suitcase. The morning sun caught on every bare surface, dancing happily in all its new found freedom, while she did one more sweep of the empty flat.

Passports, ticket counters, and a few glasses of wine later, and they were seated beside each other in the plush velour seats of the jet, surrounded by the palpable excitement and weary homesickness of the array of other travelers.

The engines began to whir loudly, the sound drowning out the hum of conversation in the cabin, and enveloping them in their own private experience. As the plane began to taxi, then accelerate, the forward momentum pushed them into the backs of their seats and she squeezed his thigh, letting her hand linger there.

"You ready to go home?" he said, covering her hand with his.

Michonne tipped her head to his shoulder, turning her palm upward on his lap and lacing their fingers. "I'm already there," she said.

 **Fin**

 **A/N thank you so much for the love you have given me on this fic. And thanks for the reviews. You are all the best!**


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